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Act I, Scene 124


  • Shakespeare. If my dear love were but the child of state,
    It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd' 1725
    As subject to Time's love or to Time's hate,
    Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd.
    No, it was builded far from accident;
    It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
    Under the blow of thralled discontent, 1730
    Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls:
    It fears not policy, that heretic,
    Which works on leases of short-number'd hours,
    But all alone stands hugely politic,
    That it nor grows with heat nor drowns with showers. 1735
    To this I witness call the fools of time,
    Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.